


The Snake Garden

by cortchuzska



Series: The Spear of Dorne [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-02
Updated: 2012-06-02
Packaged: 2017-11-06 16:46:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cortchuzska/pseuds/cortchuzska
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>This earthly life’s like a meadow, where<br/>a snake hides among the grass and flowers<br/>Petrarch</em>
</p><p> </p><p>“ Did you enjoy Lord Wayn's. tourney?”<br/>“A bore. Had not been for Willas Tyrell.”<br/>“Was he there?” Doran stared at him. “Nothing Lord Mace could object, I hope.”<br/>How the Seven hells did Doran always manage to know everything?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Snake Garden

He lifted open the tent flaps. “I expected to meet you at Lord Wayn's banquet, and talk about that thoroughbreds of yours; they are almost better than mine.”

Judging from the letters he wrote, Willas Tyrell was no fool; and he anticipated a stimulating converse with someone else than his own steeds. Red Desert – the day winner – had for sure more brightness than most of race attendance.

“I'm afraid Lord Wayn's cuisine is a bit too rich for me. As you know I ought to stay light in my condition.” Willas, lying on a cot, put down the book he was reading, hauled on his arms and beckoned him. He looked wan by candle unsteady light; the Tyrells green brocade he was clothed in gave him a sickly hue.

The Prince sauntered in. “I share your views on his cuisine. As heavy and with no savour as his conversation.”

Oberyn Nymeros Martell enjoyed a good discussion possibly even more he enjoyed a good fight or a good fuck, and the tourney, up to now, had turned out a dull affair in all its respects.

He fumbled in his large Dornish breeches pockets, and drew out a blood orange.

“That's juicier: would you like some?”

He effortlessly tossed him one. Willas quickly caught it, disarraying his robe. With a flicker of disappointment he clumsily tried to cover his injured leg.

He had ordered his servants to get him ready for the night, then gave them leave to go to the feast; sometimes he liked being alone and he didn't expect anyone to come by, but now he didn't know what to do with the orange, and he had no one to help him, and serve a dish and a knife.

Oberyn saw his uneasiness, so he perched on the corner of Willas's camp bed and offered him his dagger, that was reluctantly accepted.

Feeling Willas's self-consciousness, he sat back on a stool by his bedside, and smirked. “You hate being pitied, don't you?”

“Almost as you do feeling guilty.” Willas reached out and gave him the knife back.

“A thorny rose, aren't you? I hope you save kinder remarks for any plump wench in the Reach who could take pity on you. I'm taking that with the heir of Highgarden they're not so prude, as Northerner girl are rumoured to be.”

“There were some randy damsels, of not so spotless virtue.” Willas replied with a wry smile. ”I guess my lord father encouraged them, pleading for my cause.”

His meek eyes conveyed much more wisdom than could fit in them.

Oberyn snorted. “Weren't you grateful?”

“I'm no freak and I don't wish to be treated like one.”

“I doubt Lord Tywin would be so kind to his son Tyrion, who nonetheless pays the Lannisters' gold to his whores.”

“We the Tyrells are not the Lannisters.”

“Of course not.” Prince Oberyn retorted. “Hear my.. meow!” he hissed softly, with a poisonous smile, retaliating with a single quip scores of silly jokes about Dornishmen the Reach was notorious for.

The Tyrells were not the Lannisters, Willas knew all too well; and the sting bit him all the more.

The Reach was accounted among the richest land in the Seven Kingdoms, its people were flourishing, its armies vast and led by generals such as Randyll Tardy. The Tyrells themselves were good looking, Lord Mace was ambitious, if not canny, and his men loyal. It was not only out of brotherly love he thought Loras would grow a match to Jaime Lannister, in bravery, swordmanship, pride and beauty. His little brother, though, was the Knight of Flowers, not a Lannister Lion, let alone the Kingslayer: in the Tyrells' hazel eyes flickered sparkles, not the cold green wildfire burning in the Lannisters' ones.

“So, do you think I should better follow Tyrion Lannister's pawsteps, when back in town?” He asked back more curtly than he intended. “No use; the girls' rooms are always upstairs.”

“But there is a tent with some pillow girls here. Or is the heir to Highgarden too high for that? Are you that scared?”

“I'm not. Rather, I'm frightful.”

“You are afraid to be feared, aren't you, sweet Willas?”

“I'd look a fright to anyone.”

“As long as I remember, your leg was dreadful; and I wasn't afraid then. I'm not frightened now. Off with that gown.”

Willas took it off, and remained in scanty smallclothes, his scarred leg resting on a cushion. He looked even younger than the injured boy Oberyn remembered; slightly taller but way leaner and not as wiry.

“You're doubly entitled to admire it; a job twice yours – injuring an mending.”

Despite what he defiantly said, Willas was squirming under his eyes.

“Why are you feeling so embarrassed?”

“Because I'm bare which you're not.”

Oberyn tilted rakishly his head. “Is it just so?”

He stood and swiftly, and not without elegance, got rid of his clothes.

Willas gazed at him: naked, at ease, self-confident, and firmly upright on both his legs; and still looking at his injured one, without flinching.

Willas couldn't avert his gaze, and the more he looked the more he was overwhelmed with painful longing.

“You're not that scared any more, I reckon.”

“Should I?”

“I'm a dangerous man.” A brazen smile slightly creased on his mouth corners, and Oberyn's eyes glittered. “I'm going to hurt you.”

“You already did.” Willas met anxious his gaze.

\--o--

Prince Oberyn run fingers on his scars, and kissed the soft flesh behind the knee. Skin was hard and insensitive, still Willas flinched at his nudging touches.

He moved up to Willas waist, hands trailing down to trace his cock, then he made quick work of his smallclothes, easing them down.

Oberyn rolled him over, though protecting Willas's lame leg with his own, and was on him. With a hand he worked his way from kneading a shoulder blade, through fondling spine knobs down to squeezing hip, continuing stroking with the other, and spread open Willas's legs, meaning business.

Then he stopped.

Willas couldn't kneel, nor stand on his legs; he couldn't haul on his knee, nor bend it; lie on his bad leg, and lying on the other one would leave it unprotected to ensuing roughness: Oberyn was not a man of wispy kisses.

Usual positions weren't going to work, as to other less ordinary options, Willas had little experience and an impaired leg. Clumsiness, and pointless striving: there was nothing Oberyn hated more.

“What are you going to do with me?”

“You know nothing.” He whispered to Willas ear, nuzzled his nape, and smoothly turned him up. “Let's dance now.”

He knew what to do: he was the Viper.

\--o--

The Prince's coarse lips were hot and dry, his tapering fingers deft and sure, and Willas's nerves chorded like an obedient lute. The jig went on, with coils and twists, gaping and grasping, hissed, kissed and bit, sucking and licking.

Oberyn's lean nimble limbs seemed to tease everywhere at once; every inch of his skin tingling, singing and thrilling, till Willas befuddled found himself panting, his curls ruffled, salty sweat on his lips, raking fingers through sleek jet black hair, and on the brink of craziness for craved release.

Oberyn pushed slightly, and brushed him just so.

Willas poked his nails into the Prince's shoulders. Quivering, and still stirred, the heir to Highgarden wheezed at last “I hate you.”

\--o--

“Your steeds performed exceedingly well, I'm told. Did you enjoy Lord Wayn's. tourney?”

“A bore. Had not been for Willas Tyrell.”

“Was he there?” Doran stared at him. “Nothing Lord Mace could object, I hope.”

How the Seven hells did Doran always manage to know _everything_?

“You're back just in time You have always liked to travel, and to see new things; haven't you, brother? It's meet Dorne fosters diplomatic ties beyond the Free Cities. You are to join our envoys to the Summer Isles.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> 'cause Willas/Oberyn it's canon
> 
>  
> 
> [Background music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoRbncF9UHw)


End file.
